People Like Us
by H.J. Bender
Summary: Alex has finally managed to destroy SCORPIA and earn his freedom from MI6, but it leaves him with feelings he can't reconcile. Perhaps the advice of a killer is the only way he can find his path again. ON HIATUS
1. Comeback

Looking back on it, he never would have been able to take down SCORPIA without the help of an insider, somebody familiar with the organization's inner workings. Unfortunately, SCORPIA had no qualms about killing their own, least of all turncoats, and the list of surviving ex-Scorpians was abysmally short. Those who had managed to evade the all-knowing eye had moved as far from Venice as possible, gone into seclusion, changed their identities, and were impossible to trace. Alex didn't have the luxury of time on his hands, not with SCORPIA threatening to exterminate one-third of the world's population in just under 72 hours.

But in the end, Alex hadn't needed to find a mole for SCORPIA—the mole found Alex first.

Deep in his heart, he always knew that it would take more than a bullet to kill Yassen Gregorovich. When the Russian had rescued Alex from a hyperbaric chamber designed to pressurize him into a bloody, gutty pulp, Alex's reaction was hardly one of surprise. Of course Yassen had survived. The man had more lives than a cat, and probably better reflexes. A bullet to the chest was nothing to him.

It wasn't exactly a joyous reunion, but Yassen had made it abundantly clear that he had no love for SCORPIA, not after discovering the truth about John Rider's death just a few months before. The fact that they'd also tried to assassinate Alex had been enough for Yassen to pick up his guns again. And he'd brought a _lot_ of them.

"I need you," he'd told the fifteen-year-old in Cairo, "and you need me. The only way one can destroy Scorpia is from the inside out, and if we hope to accomplish that, we must work together. What do you say, Rider? Do we have an arrangement?"

Alex, thinking of the parents who had died at SCORPIA's hands and an uncle who had died at Yassen's, had hesitated for a moment. Then Yassen had pulled a Glock 19 from his belt and placed it in Alex's hand.

"You have my trust," he said, staring intently at Alex's face. "All I need is yours."

Alex had accepted the peace offering and shaken Yassen's hand like a man.

Forty-eight hours later, Cossack and Cub single-handedly blew SCORPIA's headquarters off the face of the earth with a two-ton massive ordnance bomb, and averted a global power disaster that would have plunged the human race back into the Dark Ages. Of course, the bomb had been hijacked from the United States military, Yassen had broken at least twelve international laws in order to get it, not counting taking three UN representatives hostage, and Alex had shot Zeljan Kurst in the head with a .50 caliber AutoMag V. They weren't exactly heroes, and they knew the only thing waiting for them back in London was a military tribunal.

MI6, however, in an unusual act of mercy, declared that they'd been "misinformed" by several "unscrupulous sources", and all charges against Yassen Gregorovich and his young accomplice were dropped without further argument. Furthermore, Alex was officially released from his duties as MI6 operative and granted full power of attorney to Ian Rider's bank accounts, the bait which MI6 had been using to trap Alex in their service for the past two years.

Unfortunately, things hadn't changed much for Yassen. He still had a criminal record a mile long and was a wanted man in nearly every country in the European Union; his respite in London wasn't meant to last.

Alex and Yassen parted ways at Liverpool Street Station with a handshake and an understanding, and the last Alex saw of Cossack was the back of his head disappearing into the crowd. He vaguely wondered if he'd ever see him again.

_Of course I will_, Alex realized almost immediately, feeling suddenly, inexplicably relieved.

People like Yassen always came back.


	2. Wanting

He should have been happy. He wasn't.

While MI6 was busy hunting down and eradicating the last of SCORPIA's cockroaches, Alex was back in school and taking his GSCEs, getting good marks in every subject, excelling at football and shaping up to be captain of the team next year. He even had a sort-of girlfriend, Erin Andrews, who played on the girls' football team and whom Alex sometimes studied with. She was a nice girl, average-pretty and fun to be around. Entirely too happy and outgoing, though. Alex was talking to her less and less these days.

He should have been happy. He had every right to be. He'd saved the world, saved millions of lives, and Ian's well-stocked bank accounts afforded Alex and Jack a very nice life at their home on Cheyne Walk. They didn't want for anything.

Well, Jack didn't. Alex, on the other hand, wanted. He wanted to be able to sleep at night. He wanted to be able to go about his day and not think of MI6. He wanted to stop waiting for That Story to appear on the evening news, to stop worrying about bombs being planted in airplanes, drug cartels roaming the globe, women and children in third-world countries being sold into prostitution, nuclear weapons passing from madman to madman . . . He had a laundry list of worldly concerns, and no way of knowing if SIS were getting the job done right.

Sometimes he rode out to Liverpool Street to stare at the Royal & General, squatting there like a brick toad, behaved and proper and by all appearances just an innocent building, knowing that within those walls were high-tech computers and technicians and engineers and agents, a whole different world. A world of adventure and danger and justice in its sweetest form. And despite two years of sheer, perfect hell at the hands of MI6, despite being robbed of his innocence and naivety, Alex wanted back in the game. He belonged with them. This is what he was meant to be, what he was meant to do. All this school and football and girlfriends—it didn't feel like him. It all felt fake, like he was living someone else's life. He wanted to live his own life, doing what he does best.

So Alex decided that when he turned sixteen, four months from now, he was going to walk into the Royal & General and beg Alan Blunt to let him rejoin MI6.


	3. Something New

The mid-February afternoon was gray and cold. Dark clouds hung low over London as Alex spilled out of Brookland Academy with the rest of the students. He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and narrowed his eyes against the biting breeze, heading down the sidewalk and beginning the journey home on foot. He could have taken the tube, but he preferred walking. It kept his blood moving, gave him time to reflect on the schoolday and think about the coming evening. Or a little farther into the future.

He didn't know when or how he became aware that he was being followed—it was simply a feeling that struck him, based on neither sight nor sound, but a sixth sense that he seemed to have inherited from the generation of spies that had come before him.

With a heavy sigh, Alex stopped in his tracks and stood still, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "If you're going to attack me, now's your chance," he said to the empty space in front of him.

"I have you at a disadvantage," came a voice from behind. "You first."

Alex whipped around as he drew the 3-inch Mikov switchblade from his coat pocket, aiming a perfect backward-strike at the target's neck. He was intercepted by a gloved hand and a familiar face, and Alex paled in surprise.

Yassen Gregorovich's cold blue eyes glanced at the knife hovering just centimeters above his throat. He grinned crookedly. "Russian steel. How appropriate."

Alex pulled his wrist from Yassen's grasp and stepped back, blinking rapidly. The assassin looked different from the last time he'd seen him almost one year ago. His hair was a little longer, his clothing more casual, his posture relaxed and indifferent. He still wore those same black tactical boots, though. Good to know some things never changed.

Snapping his knife closed, Alex took a deep breath to calm his pounding heart. "Gregorovich," he said, trying to sound tough and nonchalant—difficult to pull off with a tremor in one's voice. "I hope you're not here on business."

"Not quite." Yassen smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. That was something new too.

"Then to what do I owe this unexpected visit?"

The Russian slowly looked Alex over from head to toe, almost as if the boy's appearance would be the deciding factor of his next words. After a moment he nodded, apparently satisfied with whatever information he had ascertained.

"Come," he said. "Take a walk with me."

And Alex, with nothing to trust aside from some inexplicable feeling of connection to this known killer, followed without question.


	4. For Nothing

They walked shoulder-to-shoulder down the Chelsea Embankment, huddled inside their coats, silent for the most part. The Thames sloshed restlessly against the hulls of moored boats, the water as cold and colorless as the sky above.

Yassen kept his gaze fixed upon the passing ground. "You have gotten taller," he said after a while.

Alex shrugged. "These things happen."

Again, that crinkling smile. "Yes. I suppose they do." Yassen paused a moment before adding, "Happy birthday, by the way."

A humorless grin pulled at one corner of Alex's mouth. "I see you've been reading my file."

"No. Your father told me sixteen years ago. I never forgot."

An inexplicable feeling—pain, love, happiness and grief all rolled into one—sliced through Alex's heart. He swallowed dryly. "Really. Did he . . . tell you anything else about me?"

"Just that he loved you. More than his own life, apparently." Yassen stopped and gazed at the young man somberly. "John never intended for you to become involved in this, Alex. He died trying to save you from becoming, unfortunately, what you have already become."

"A spy?"

"A killer."

Alex broke eye contact, looking out across the gray water. He recalled all too vividly that moment when he'd held Zeljan Kurst at gunpoint, the massive .50 caliber handgun clutched in his trembling, blood-streaked hands. He recalled the way Kurst had tried to reason with him, calmly at first, then, when he had realized negotiating was useless, frantically pleading for his life. Alex remembered how the trigger felt beneath his finger, how hard he had to squeeze. He could still hear the bang, feel the tremendous kick of the recoil knocking his arms into the air. He could still see Kurst's head erupting in red chunks, so much meat and bone shredded apart by the half-inch diameter bullet.

Afterward, as he sat in the rubble with silent tears tracking down his dirty face, Yassen had approached and sat down beside him, looking worse for the wear, covered in scratches and soot, his Kevlar vest scarred with bullet-dents. Together they had stared at Kurst's mutilated remains, then Yassen pulled out a hip flask and took a hearty gulp. Without thinking, Alex had reached over and taken the flask from Yassen's hand and thrown back a mouthful of the burning, 80-proof scotch whisky. He'd grimaced, swallowed, and handed the flask back. Then Yassen had pulled him to his feet, pried the gun from his shaking fingers, and led him back to the helicopter.

Almost one year later, Alex stood here again with Yassen, tears ready to spill from his eyes, things so different and yet not different at all. He bowed his head, his blond hair falling over his forehead.

"I guess I've failed him, then."

He sniffed and shielded his eyes with his hand, ashamed of being seen like this. Ashamed that his father's sacrifice had been for nothing.

A gloved hand came to rest on Alex's shoulder, slowly pulling into an embrace that smelled like wool and felt like home—warm, strong, complete. A home he'd never known. He threw his arms around Yassen's waist and buried his face into the lapels of his coat, hugging this man, little more than a stranger, like the father he'd never had.

And, strangely enough, Alex had never felt safer than where he was now—right here, in these lethal arms.


	5. Stolen Dreams

Yassen cupped the back of Alex's head as gently as if he were an infant, holding him like he would something precious and made of glass.

"It's not too late for you," he said. "You can start over, wipe the slate clean." A pained look crossed his face as he glanced down at the blond head resting against his chest. "I have been watching you, Alex. I know how you must feel. Anxious, helpless. But MI6 do not have what you seek. If you go back to them, you will never have another chance at leading a normal life. You will die young like your father, like your uncle, and your life will be filled with terror and death. John wanted better than that for you."

Slowly Alex pulled back and stared at Yassen, his red-rimmed eyes filled with betrayal. "You, you've been _spying_ on me?"

"When I can, yes," Yassen admitted guiltily. "For the better part of a year now."

Alex freed himself from the Russian's arms and stepped away, all that trust and confidence violated by this confession.

Yassen sighed. "Don't be upset, Alex. My intentions were not sinister. I was only . . . It was the least I could do for John. He would have wanted—"

"John, John, it's all about what _John_ wants, isn't it?" Alex snapped. "What about me? Maybe I _want_ to be a killer, ever thought of that?"

Yassen's expression hardened grimly. "Nobody wants to be a killer."

"Oh, really? Not even you?"

"No. I wanted to be a cosmonaut."

The response was so bizarre and unexpected that Alex could help letting a bark of laughter escape. "Wh-_what_? Seriously?"

"Of course. Every Russian boy growing up in the 70s dreamed of being the next Yuri Gargarin." Yassen smiled and shook his head, as if he couldn't believe himself either. "I had spaceship wallpaper in my bedroom and a map of the cosmos tacked to the ceiling. I was space-crazy."

Alex stared, trying to picture Yassen Gregorovich as a little kid playing with cardboard spaceships, sleeping in bedroom decorated with stars and rockets, falling asleep at night and dreaming of planets and galaxies. It was difficult. Such a different vision of the man standing in front of him today in black tactical boots. But if Alex tried hard enough, tried to imagine that this was the first time he'd ever met Yassen, he could almost see him dressed in blue coveralls, badges on his shoulders and collar—_Kosmonaut Gregorovich_—floating in zero gravity inside a space capsule, talking to the world via headset, inspiring a whole new generation of children who sat in front of their televisions, eyes wide with wonder.

He came back to reality with a few blinks, taking in the 37-year-old man—the assassin, the contract killer—in front of him. "What happened?" he asked gently.

Yassen's smile faded. He sat down on the low concrete wall and gazed up at the heavy, foreboding sky. "My father was killed in a biochemical accident in 1979. My mother followed him a few months later. I was sent to an orphanage in Moscow with my brother and sister. We were horribly mistreated. They helped me escape, and I never saw them again."

Alex felt suddenly dizzy, disoriented. Yassen had siblings? That was almost as unbelievable as his wanting to be an astronaut when he was little.

"I lived on the streets for months," Yassen continued levelly. "I became a thief. It was the only way I could survive, otherwise I would have starved or frozen to death. Then one day I stole from the wrong people. Mafia people. But instead of killing me, they took pity on me, admiring my talent for thievery. They took me in and taught me to lie, cheat, and murder." He released a slow, heavy sigh. "Then Scorpia got their hooks into me when I was sixteen and sent me to their training facility on Malagosto. It was there that I eventually met your father and . . . the rest is history."

Alex numbly lowered himself onto the wall beside Yassen and sat in stupefied silence.

"So you see, Alex," Yassen murmured, "my dreams were taken away from me a long time ago. There is no hope of redeeming myself to the world now. But there is hope for you." He reached over and placed a gloved hand on Alex's arm. "Stay in school. Go to university. Then decide what you want to be. Don't . . . don't end up like me."


	6. The Same World

Alex was quiet, thinking. Yassen didn't seem to have it so bad—what was wrong with ending up like him? Sure, he was a wanted criminal, a murderer, a terrorist, and there were probably people in the world who would like nothing better than to kill him with their bare hands, but none of that seemed to faze him. Yassen was always calm, always cool, always had a plan and a way out. He knew how to run and he knew how to hide. He knew how to survive a .40 cal slug at point-blank range. He would live to be a hundred, Alex just knew it. And when it was his time to go, he would simply disappear without a trace. No obituary, no funeral, no one to miss him.

Well . . . maybe not _no one_.

Alex lowered his head, staring at the ground through his blond fringe. "University. I don't even know what I would study. It all just seems so . . . It's not me."

"How do you know if you have never given it a chance?" Yassen said. "You have to least try, Alex."

"Try to be normal, you mean? Try to pretend I'm just like everyone else?" Alex shook his head. "I don't belong to that world anymore. I belong . . ."

He trailed off, turning his head and looking at Yassen, who stared back at him emptily. It was the closest expression to grief that Alex had ever seen on the man's face.

"I know," he said softly.

Silence fell between them for a few long moments. They sat side by side, gazing toward London, a man who'd lost his chance and a boy who was selling his. To a passing observer they might have appeared to be related—a concerned father reaching out to his troubled teenage son. They looked similar, their bodies never completely relaxing, their faces always hiding their true feelings, their eyes a million miles away from the reality that belonged to the average person. They belonged to another reality, one ruled by danger, deceit and distrust. Few managed to return from it alive. One way or another, it would eventually sink its fangs in deep enough to kill. The Rider family could vouch for that.

"What should I do?" Alex finally asked, ignoring how ironic it was to be asking for life advice from a killer.

Yassen drew in a long breath and sighed. He seemed to know what he had to say, but he held back for a second, almost as if it were going to cause him pain.

"What do you think about France?" he said.

"France?"

"Lyon. Interpol headquarters." Yassen spoke the words as if they tasted bitter. "With your talents I am sure you would have no problem establishing a prominent position in the international police."

Alex blinked, intrigued. Interpol. He'd never really thought of that before. _Making the world a safer place_. That actually sounded like a good idea.

Yassen watched the light come on in the boy's eyes. "You are interested, I see."

Alex nodded. "Yeah. I could see myself work—I mean, I think I could handle a job like that." He paused and cloud passed over his face. "But if I join Interpol, you'll be my enemy. I'll have to hunt you down."

Yassen smirked. "I have been on Interpol's most wanted list since 1989, Alex. Catch me if you can."

Alex hesitated for a second, then reached out and grabbed Yassen's wrist.

"Gotcha," he grinned.


	7. The Hands of All Clocks

Alex sat there, still smiling while holding Yassen's wrist, feeling the man's pulse throb against his fingers. All Yassen could do was stare at those thin, arching lips, those intelligent brown eyes—so much like John's—and be amazed that this boy had survived two years and nine missions under MI6. That Alex could even remember how to smile was nothing short of a miracle. Yassen might have saved him from becoming another notch on the belt of Military Intelligence, but it was really just the lesser of two evils; Interpol had their own share of danger and disaster, and were by no means immune to scandal.

Alex's grin began to fade as he sensed something wrong, his grip on Yassen's wrist slowly loosening.

"No," Yassen said suddenly, taking hold of Alex's departing hand. "It's all right." He smiled slightly, showing Alex that it was. "I can be your prisoner for a little while."

The grin came back to Alex's mouth—the only thing Yassen really cared about—and he looked down at the wrist he held, just the few inches of bare skin peeking between glove and sleeve: pale, sprinkled with ginger hair, a tiny white scar on the side, old by the looks of it. Alex thumbed over it, wondering how Yassen had gotten it, if it had been received while on mission, or if one of the assassin's targets had tried to fight back.

"How do I get into Interpol?" he asked distantly, staring at the scar.

"It's too early to worry about that yet," said Yassen. "Focus on school for now. Take advantage of every opportunity. Study hard. Don't allow others to distract you."

Alex smiled crookedly. "You sound like a dad."

Yassen stared in silence for a few moments, then reached out and brushed a few locks of blond hair from Alex's forehead. "Maybe in another life," he murmured.

"Why not this one?" Alex raised his head, gazing up at Yassen, who sat completely still, not even appearing to breathe. "It's not too late. Everyone should be . . . We all deserve second chance, don't we?"

Wintry blue eyes met warm brown ones, and Yassen drew in a measured breath. "People like us rarely get second chances, Alex. Keep your heart inside"—he tapped the boy's chest— "where it belongs. It has ways of leading us astray if we don't."

Alex let go of Yassen's wrist and sat back, his face once again adopting its blank, muted expression. "Sorry," he muttered. "Didn't realize it was a crime to love someone."

For a few seconds, the world seemed to stand still. The Thames froze, its waves silent and motionless. Pigeons hovered in the air, their wings halted by the weight of this heavy moment. Then Yassen blinked, swallowed, and pulled Alex into his arms, embracing him tightly. Time resumed its normal pace, gradually emerging from its standstill until the hands of all clocks were finally ticking as they should.

Yassen pressed his cheek against the side of Alex's head, trying not to think about how badly he would miss this moment, this feeling—this boy—once they parted paths. "I love you too, Alex," he said gently, "and I always will. But I can never replace John, no matter how . . ."—his voice cracked and he looked up at the gray sky—"how badly I want to be something more than just a stranger to you." He closed his eyes. "I would have been a terrible father."

"So don't be my father," Alex said, his voice muffled in the folds of Yassen's coat. "Be my friend. I'm already yours."

For the first time in sixteen years, ever since a small plane had exploded over a nameless airport an hour outside of London, Yassen Gregorovich's eyes began to fill with tears.

"All right," he said, blinking. A single tear rolled down his cheek and ended up somewhere in Alex's hair. "I can do that." 


End file.
